


Art of Mercy

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:52:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2446103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a New Year's toast to a lesson in miracles, the Men from UNCLE need more than a little help when they go in search of a missing painting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Year's Toast

New Year's Eve 1964 

''Rublya za vashi mysli." Illya looked up at the man offering him money for his thoughts. It had been a long time, it seemed, since he had last used rubles.

"Napoleon, you can't afford my thoughts, not with rubles or pennies."

The American smiled at his friend as he handed him the chilled glass of vodka. Not champagne for these two on New Year's Eve, but an icy blast of real Russian vodka from a black market vendor whose identity they had promised to protect. It would be worth it, just this once, to let the man go on his way. Illya raised his glass and saluted freedom and friendship, the two treasures he had found in New York, working for UNCLE.

"Dlya svobody i druzhby." Napoleon reciprocated with a toast to their continued health, the domain of his purported good luck.

"Bóodeem zdaróvye."

Both men inhaled the prized liquor in one gulp, as much for the imagery as the pleasure of it. Illya wasn't quite certain why Napoleon insisted on toasting him in Russian, but he appreciated the gesture. It wasn't his first New Year in America, but having a friend to raise a glass with him was meaningful in a way that only the disenfranchised can appreciate.

"We had better not be drunk on this, else Mr. Waverly will have our heads tomorrow. Our plane leaves at seven. Our new year will be off to a flying start, it seems."

Napoleon nodded, wondering if there weren't other agents who might have taken this assignment just as easily. No point in that, though. Thrush couldn't be trusted to observe holidays, and the object of this new mission couldn't wait on sentimentality.

"You're right, Illya. I guess one will have to do it tonight. This stuff is lethal; perhaps we should put that guy away after all, for selling such potent alcohol."

The blond shook his head, something that always baffled his American partner. He was never certain if it was a nod or a shake…Russians were funny.

"Let the man have his trade. The vodka is good, and I will want more of it when we return. This one will not be so bad, and perhaps we will be successful with very little aggravation."

Perhaps…

"To us then, and to a speedy trip with no complications. Cheers!"

"Cheers to you, my friend. Happy New Year, Napoleon."

The two men clinked their glasses, forgetting that they were now empty. Neither man was superstitious, but each of them had the passing thought that toasting with an empty glass was considered bad luck.


	2. No Superstitions Allowed

It had been five days since Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin toasted a new year in preparation for the mission ahead of them. The clinking of empty glasses permeated the American's mind now as he looked around the dank environment into which he and his Russian partner had been deposited.

Illya lay in the corner, either unconscious or merely asleep; Solo had difficulty ascertaining which at times like this. His own head was reeling with the after effects of some THRUSH drugs and a sound beating at the hands of two burly goons he had named Hump and Thump. Neither was a compliment to their technique.

 

Now that he looked more closely through the lifting fog in his brain, Illya looked less a slumbering Bolshevik and more likely a wounded warrior. Bruising was apparent around the blond's eyes and jaws, a slight swelling beginning to alter his normally fine features. The way his arm wrapped around the slender torso indicated a need to hold in warmth and possibly forestall the pain of a broken rib… or worse.

 

"Great start to 1965, Solo." His own voice sounded alien to the American agent, his immediate thoughts even more so.

A slight stir from the Russian caused a grunt of pain as he repositioned himself in a half stupor of drugs and disorientation. Jerking involuntarily, Illya was awake and fully cognizant of every ache and pain as he looked wildly around the dark room. The only light was from a small window above Napoleon's head, something that Kuryakin quickly (considering his condition), appraised and catalogued.

"Where…?" One word, it was a breath's worth and all that he could muster.

"Don't have a clue, sorry to say. How are you? I mean, are you badly hurt?" Napoleon felt inadequate in the pitiful questions he would have to ask his obviously ailing partner. Still, better to know whether or not a fight could be waged if the opportunity presented itself.

Illya tried to sit up, prompting Napoleon to finally yield his position and go to the other man's side. Gently but forcefully lifting the smaller man by the shoulders, the posture was corrected and Kuryakin was able to lean back against the stone wall. Napoleon dropped down beside him, ignoring the cold floor and the smell of old, dead things in their midst. The room was buried within an old building, but he seemed to remember entering through a doorway at ground level, so perhaps…

"I think we might be in an old barn of some sort. As I recall we're in Italy, outside of Milan. This appears to be a satrapy in the making, complete with a compelling ambiance."

That comment elicited a smile from the Russian. Ambiance indeed.

"I suppose the aroma of rotting mice and mildewing straw is part of this purloined setting."   
THRUSH had no intention of being more than a band of thieves, it seemed, even when it came to establishing one of their perilous hideouts.

Solo shook his head, not sure whether to be alarmed or impressed that his partner should delve into semantics and criminal philosophies at a time like this.

"Well, whatever it is, we would be wise to consider how to get out of here. You don't look too good, my friend. I'm betting you have a concussion, although it's beginning to be apparent that you have a very hard head." A piercing blue gaze let Napoleon know that whatever had knocked out the Russian had not overcome him by any means.

"I assure you that I am ready to proceed… argh…" Pain ripped through his chest at the gesture of readiness he tried to produce.

"Right, I can see you're just peachy. Let's see where this leads, tovarisch. We still don't have what we came here to collect."

For a moment the object of their mission had become obtuse in the mind of Illya Kuryakin. He had survived Nazis and Stalinists, Paris and Cambridge, only to come to rest here in an Italian barn. And for what? In pursuit of something he found completely and incomparably insignificant in the realm of real life and all that it implied.

"Where do you think they have her?" Illya looked at his partner, wishing an easy answer might breach the squalid prison in which they sat.  Napoleon mulled it over, equally hopeful that things might get a little easier, just for the sake of expediency if nothing else.

"I don't know, Illya. I guess we'll just have to take it one step at a time."

Both men stared off into the small opening that was their window to the outside. Perhaps it would be one of opportunity.

 

Gazing up at the window would do no one any good unless it actually led someplace. Illya might be able to squeeze through the opening, although that would be of little use in his present condition. Should he land safely on the other side, there was no guarantee he would have the physical ability to get far on foot.

Napoleon heard something from the corridor and backed into the shadows. Illya took his cue and lay back down on the earthen floor, allowing himself to look as stricken as he felt. A rattle of keys and the turn of the lock…

"Hey, where's the other…?" Too late, the careless guard was made very aware of where the other guy was. Napoleon executed a precise chop to the man's neck, felling him immediately. Illya gained his footing and rose to help tuck the unfortunate man into the corner previously occupied by Solo, but not before riffling his uniform and retrieving keys and a gun.

"These fellows really are very careless. I cannot imagine how THRUSH continues to prosper with the alarming lack of acceptable execution." Napoleon raised an eyebrow at that, wondering if Illya meant to imply that improvements could be made.

"I think we're better off if they continue to be slightly less able than we are, tovarisch. ' The American held out his hand to show his partner a device that had been missed by the careless guard. "Shall we?"

Illya grinned, the first sign of vitality yet from the battered blond. Nothing like an explosion to set his heart on a merry path.

"Yes, that looks like an excellent idea. How did they miss that, I wonder?" Napoleon smiled, he had a way of distracting his captors so that they often skipped over the details that would serve his purposes. It was one of his many gifts, useful and immeasurably worth cultivating.

"I have my ways of turning their attention elsewhere. Let's go, before reinforcements show up."

The two edged cautiously out of their cell, a long look down the corridor showing that no one else was about. THRUSH was unpredictable, sometimes over-staffing their satrapy while other times maintaining an arrogant sense of impenetrableness. This was one of the latter, thankfully, and thus allowed the UNCLE agents to slip away easily and plant the explosive at the back door to the shabby building in which they had been held.  
The explosion was not exceptional, although it did raise a few alarms before they were squelched by the rupture in all things electrical. A barracks of some sort spurted out an assortment of yelling and cursing, all of which was viewed from a safe distance by the mischievous escapees.

"Do you think they will ever adapt to our style of escape?" Illya was an explosives expert and already hated for it among THRUSH operatives. Napoleon was glad for the man's expertise, although the enthusiasm for blowing up buildings bordered on something he dared not analyze. Who knew what had fostered such delight in destruction.

"We still need to retrieve our objective, Illya. She isn't here, obviously, and now that we're free I imagine THRUSH will move her once more.'' A sigh of resignation from both men was the only response to that.

A trek through the Italian countryside was the only recourse now. Milan was the nearest place with UNCLE contacts but Illya was still physically compromised. The journey would begin at once, where and how it ended was something they would face with each step.


	3. Is This The Cavalry?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my lovely Italian friend Highshore for her invaluable help with the Italian dialogue in this story. If any errors are found they are merely oversights on my part.

Three hours later found the two escaped agents laboring to make the miles disappear behind them. Illya was failing, his strength now spent as his body fought to ward off the pain. Napoleon was so tired from supporting his partner that he longed for a place to stop and rest, but the knowledge that there were, most likely, THRUSH somewhere behind them kept him going at as steady a pace as he could manage.

 

Out of the twilight darkness emerged the sound of horse and wagon, a dull clapping sound on the unpaved road. When the driver could finally see the two men ahead of him, he hailed them without any care for who they might be.

 _Voi due avete l'aria di aver bisogno di un passaggio,soprattutto il suo amico_. (You two look as though you need a ride, especially your friend.)

Napoleon was so relieved he let his guard down slightly, trusting his instincts regarding the kindness of this good samaritan.

 _La prego, non mi chieda spiegazioni, ma se può aiutarci, allora accetto. Il mio amico ha una costola fratturata e una commozione cerebrale._ (Please, don't ask me to explain, but if you can help us out then yes, I accept. My friend is suffering from a broken rib and a concussion.)

The man nodded, motioned for Napoleon to bring Illya with him and get into the back of his little cart.

 _D'accordo, vi porterò a casa mia. Sarete al sicuro, ve lo prometto. Avanti, salite._ (Yes, I will take you home with me. You will be safe, I promise. Climb in.)

Without hesitation Napoleon gathered the increasingly limp Kuryakin and helped him into the cart, settling in for a bumpy ride with a stranger whose intentions he hoped were as good as they appeared on the surface. He lost track of the time, lulled into a peaceful oblivion by the rhythm of the horses and cart. When all motion had ceased, Napoleon awoke from some much needed sleep to find the cart had come to a stop in front of an old stone structure that resembled a house. It was a full moon and the brilliant orb illuminated a tumbled yard.  The groggy American saw chickens and goats milling about; a cow was staring at the new arrivals with a look that said she cared nothing for strangers. The only thing left to wonder about was the intentions of the man driving the cart. The man in question turned around to check on his passengers.

"Good you are awake and... How is your friend, eh?" His English was good, even if the accent was heavy. Napoleon didn't mind speaking Italian, but he was tired and English would require less from his overworked brain. He was beginning to feel the impact of his interrogation at the hands of that THRUSH duo.

"We are indebted to your kindness, signore. We will be happy to pay you when we have contacted our employer. You may have saved our lives." Somehow that didn't surprise the older man. Napoleon noted that his reaction was non-committal, as though he rescued wandering UNCLE agents every day.

"Et es no problem, you and the other one, you needed a ride, yes? And so Gianni he gives you a ride. It is ...mmmm... how do you say... no brainer. Si, that is what my good friend Lieutenant Bailey used to say... no brainer.

Napoleon had to smile at that. So Gianni had known an American soldier named Bailey, and probably learned English from him. After all of these years…

"Do you still hear from Lt. Bailey? And yes, sometimes helping people is a no brainer. That's a little like what I ... what we do." Napoleon indicated his partner, thinking that a phrase like no brainer was a little too much the case.

Gianni smiled. He had spent many years trying to repay the kindness of his American friend. The lieutenant had rescued a young Gianni from the grasp of a band of robbers who intended to sell the boy to a group of North African slave traders. It had been a quick transaction between the soldier and those evil men, and the outcome had been fatal for more than one of them. Thinking back now as he often did, Gianni figured that his life had been spared for a reason, and he made very effort to repay that debt whenever opportunity presented itself. Opportunities such as this one.

"I believe my friend Lieutenant Bailey was killed in the war. He never came back here, and I never had a letter...' Gianni looked back towards the hills with a wistfulness that Napoleon recognized. Fallen friends and failed romances elicited the same kind of silent grief. For a young boy to lose a hero to the war must have been difficult. And yet, here he was, still doing good to those in need. Lt. Bailey had inspired this, and never knew.

"He was a very good man, and he saved me from a terrible fate." Gianni crossed himself and kissed the crucifix that hung from his neck. Napoleon was helping Illya out of the cart, trying to be careful of the broken rib. The Russian shook himself out of his near slumber, looking around and then back to Gianni.

"Where are we? Who is this?" Two questions, but the one he didn't ask was betrayed by a rumbling sound.

"Ah, forgive me signori, but of course you must be hungry. I am Gianni Bruno, at your service. Come, come inside and I will fix you something to eat, and see to your injuries. Those from whom you are escaping, they might come after you, yes?" Gianni caught on fast. Perhaps his experiences in the war really had been instructional.

"Yes, something to eat would be wonderful.' Napoleon was grateful beyond words, and still, something niggled at the back of his neck.

"Gianni, do you know the men who... do you know what THRUSH is?" The prospect of danger assaulting this man’s home suddenly made Napoleon feel protective, unwilling to let any harm come to him.

"Thrush? My horse, Charlotta, she had thrush many years ago. I have never let it happen again. Do you...?" Napoleon shook his head. Okay, this man was truly an innocent.

"Gianni, some very bad people are after my partner and me. They did this to Illya...' a wave of his hand towards the blond was enough to make Gianni shudder. "I don't want them to find out that you have helped us and ... '' That caused the Italian to shake his head. "No, no signore...'' 

"Napoleon. Napoleon Solo."

"Such a fine name, signore... Mamma mia, you have much to live up to, it seems." Napoleon smiled at that, relieved at Gianni's ease and lack of fear.

"Perhaps I do. In any case, I will do what I can to ensure your safety. When we contact my ... my employer, I can ask for protection for you." Once again Gianni shook his head.

"No, please it is not necessary. I am here as I have been for so many years, Signore Solo. You do not worry for me, eh... Instead, let us help your friend." And with that the two men helped Illya up from where he sat and led him into the humble home of Gianni Bruno, friend of America and defender of wayfaring travelers.

 


	4. The Search Is On Or Illya Is Always Hungry

It was a welcome respite from physical abuse and the long walk after leaving the satrapy behind them; Gianni's home was modest but comfortable, and the bed he offered to his weary guests welcomed them, lulling them into a long sleep. The only reason Napoleon awoke from his much needed slumber was the stream of sunlight announcing morning had arrived.

As he moved to sit up on the edge of the bed Illya stirred, grunting at the twinge of pain in his ribs. Gianni and Napoleon had managed to bandage the Russian's ribcage, but without sufficient pain killers there was still significant discomfort for the ailing agent.

"How did you sleep?" Napoleon had been aware of his partner's groans through the night, an indication of his aching body.

"It was ... I am fine. It is irrelevant whether or not I am in pain, we still have a mission to complete." It was a response that the American had grown accustomed to hearing; Illya was always fine.

"Okay, well... I'm glad to hear it. But, just in case you're not fine, I think we should be able to contact Milan today and get some support. You need to see a doctor...' Illya started to protest but Napoleon held up his hand to stop him.

"You need to see a doctor. Period. 

Illya sighed and rolled his eyes. He had learned to not engage his superiors early on in life, and Napoleon was no exception. He was hurting, no point denying it, at least to himself.

"Very well. And what of our mission. We seem to have failed rather spectacularly thus far. Mr. Waverly will not be pleased with our inability to locate the painting we have been sent to rescue from THRUSH." 

Napoleon's head dropped to his chest in a gesture of his dismay at this failure. It was a particularly important task they had been entrusted to perform, an especially unusual alliance between UNCLE and the Vatican. Although it was not considered part of the Member Nations alliance, Waverly had accepted a call for help from the representatives of Pope Paul VI to find and return a painting alleged to be the work of St. Catherine of Bologna, the patron saint of artists.

Fifty years previous to this current episode the painting had been stolen from a small chapel where St. Catherine had visited, according to local lore. The mysteries surrounding the revered religious figure included her preserved body, something that caused many to ascribe an ability to extend miraculous benefits by way of her artwork, although that line of reasoning, or lack of it, was not endorsed by the Church. 

THRUSH, like so many other power crazed entities, thought they might benefit from the supernatural. They overlooked the obvious dissimilarities between the supposed source and their own evil designs, embarking on a plot to steal the painting from its newly discovered hiding place and transfer whatever could be generated into an as yet undefined scheme.

Unknown to Solo and Kuryakin, THRUSH had failed, something that would become increasingly apparent as they followed the clues to its location. The Vatican desired it back within its possession, safe from those who would exploit the art for unknown schemes. That directive was the guiding force now for the two UNCLE agents: find the painting and deliver it to Rome.

"The trail seemed to lead us to that satrapy, but obviously they must have moved the painting. We just need to let Milan fill us in on what they've learned about it." Napoleon felt certain that they hadn't been wrong about the location, simply too late. At least he hoped that was the case, because otherwise they were at a dead end with no painting in sight.

Illya had managed to sit up with a minimum of grunting and well placed cursing. The guards at that THRUSH facility, meager as it was, had certainly acted as though they were protecting something if the pain in his body was any indication.

"I fail to understand why this painting should be of such importance. Superstitious beliefs in the mystical properties of a painting, even if it is attributed to a saint... I can assure you there will be nothing to show for all of this. It will be a painting and nothing more." The void of faith in Illya's upbringing fueled his disdain for this mission, doubling his dismay at having been injured in pursuit of it.

 "It doesn't matter what we believe, tovarisch, only that Mr. Waverly has assured the Vatican of our commitment to find it. What comes of it is out of our hands, and not our concern."

That was the truth of it; they didn't have to believe it, just get the job done. Illya looked at his partner, his eyes narrowed into an icy blue sliver of reserved agreement. He understood what they were about, but some missions required more tolerance than others. Just then Gianni knocked on their door, entering the room at Napoleon's reply.

"Buongiorno. You are well, yes?" Both agents nodded, although Illya was slow getting up from the bed; Napoleon had dressed while conversing with his partner.

"There is breakfast for you, and then I will take you into Milan." Illya groaned inwardly at the thought of another bumpy ride in Gianni's cart. As though reading the Russian's mind, the happy host replied to it.

"Signore, I do have a vehicle, so we will not... umm... a smooth ride for you. You will see." A big smile was meant to reassure the two men whose mission he had yet to ascertain. He trusted that they were doing some good for someone to have been treated so badly by this THRUSH. 

"Thank you, Gianni." Napoleon liked this man, appreciated his willingness to offer his home and resources to them. He also wondered if somehow, Gianni might have knowledge of the painting they sought.

"Gianni, are you familiar with Saint Catherine of Bologna?" Gianni's face lit up at the name.

"Si, Santa Caterina di Bologna. I am an artist, signore, and she blesses my work...' He crossed himself reverently and lifted his eyes heavenward. Napoleon saw a special light in the man's eyes, as though viewing something unseen to him and Illya. 

"Have you... hmmm... have you heard anything about a painting done by St. Catherine? Perhaps someone has seen it or knows of someone who has. The people we are after, the ones who held us captive... they have been searching for this painting. We are...' Illya shot Napoleon a look, perhaps a warning. Should they divulge the mission?

"We have been sent to find this painting and return it to the Vatican. If you can think of anything..." Gianni was thoughtful, this was serious business. Santa Caterina was special to him, and he had made the pilgrimage to see her and pay his respects to the one who inspired and protected poor artists such as himself.

"I think that perhaps this THRUSH is not so smart, amici miel. There is a rumor of such a painting, formerly in the hands of a man not far from here. Perhaps he can help us, you ... I can take you there. Yes?"

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks that answered Gianni's question.

 


	5. Some Answers

Fifty years of hiding in plain sight had finally resulted in the painting of St. Catherine of Bologna being recognized by a random visitor to the small cafe in which it had hung all of those years. The owner of the restaurant, Fredrico Giordano, had hoped it would work miracles for him and his family, both real and extended. Their love of the saints coupled with a great zeal that was not balanced with wisdom, had prompted them to steal the canvas from the small chapel in which it had resided for decades.

The audacity necessary to complete the bizarre theft stemmed from their errant notions concerning a faith they measured by need rather than devotion. After fifty years the chief conspirator, Isabella’s husband Arturo, was gone, leaving only Fedrico and his ancient mother to guard the precious artwork. Now the painting was gone as well; perhaps the punishment for having stolen it in the first place. Whatever the reason, the young man who committed the crime was old now, and his arthritic hands wiped ineffectively at a table top, his back bent in obeisance to the crippling disease. At seventy-four years of age, Fedrico was long past the young man who had, at his parents’ insistence, stolen the small painting from the chapel near Milan. His mother was now nearly one hundred years old; he sometimes forgot how many years exactly, making him feel the older of the two.

On this day Fedrico was feeling the weight of his sin, lighting candles and praying with every breath he took. There were no customers today, much like the other days since the painting had been taken from him. His luck, or perhaps it was his fate, was no longer tied to the painting of Santa Caterina. Whether or not it had aided him he could not say for certain, only that since it had disappeared things had not been so good for him and his mother.

She sat erect in her chair near the front window, always waiting for the next person to come in and greet her. Gnarled fingers would embrace the hands of every customer, reciting a blessing on those who blessed the small cafe with business. Isabella Giordano had been a beautiful woman fifty years ago, still desirable to the husband of her youth and envied by younger women for her vibrant green eyes and the auburn hued hair. Sitting as she was with a view to the outside, her eyes were still sharp as she spotted the approach of three young men, one of them blond and seemingly not as fit as the other two. One of them, the younger of the two dark haired men, was especially handsome. Isabella felt a twinge of something unknown to her for many years... a spark that belied her age.

Napoleon was concerned about Illya, could see the effort it took for him to walk from the old truck that Gianni had proudly presented to them as their transportation. The three of them arrived at an old cafe about fifty kilometers from Milan, which was about half way from Gianni’s home to the city. The trip had taken them nearly an hour, in spite of the relatively short distance. Stops for sheep in the road, a slower speed to avoid some of the harder knocks that an unpaved surface contained... it was now nearly noon and Illya was ready for something to eat. It was the least he should be offered for his discomfort. 

Inside the little cafe Isabella called to her son, her anticipation keen as she enjoyed the view of such handsome young men.

“Fedrico, we have guests. Hurry and greet them, son.”

Fedrico did just that, perhaps the saints were smiling on them in spite of his sins; the candles and prayers had surely been sufficient to appease those whose help he so desperately needed. Napoleon let Gianni enter first, then Illya; he followed the other two as he took in the environs. It was a small place, sparsely furnished and completely empty save for the two elderly people who met them at the door. Gianni immediately entered into conversation with the elderly man, each of them looking towards the old woman who sat upright in her chair. She held out her hand expectantly, smiling broadly as Gianni spoke to her and complimented her on the cafe. She turned her attention then to Napoleon, who was observing all of this with a trademark smile on his face. He understood the conversation, had nodded his head when the woman, whose name was Isabella, commented on three such handsome men.

“Grazie signora,’ Napoleon took her hand and kissed it, eliciting a sigh and then an expansive gesture that beckoned them to all come in and sit.

“This is a cafe, is it not. I for one am hungry.’ Illya felt the fatigue inherent from a damaged rib and the leg injury. “I wonder if there’s a menu.” 

Fedrico seated the men and explained that there was one dish only for the day. He had spent many years courting tourists and varied ex-patriots from several different countries. In broken English he began to describe what he would be serving his visitors.

“Fagottini di pollo, er, um... little chicken bundles... si? You will, um... ah, like them very much. And wine, yes? You would like wine with your meal.”

The last wasn’t a question, and within minutes he produced a passable red for them to open and enjoy. Dinner, being the first meal of the day, would be a few minutes so he also produced an assortment of marinated vegetables and shavings of parmigiano reggiano and crostini. All of it looked delicious and was met with enthusiasm, especially by the hungry Russian. 

Napoleon was wondering if someone else was cooking the meal; the old man didn’t look as though he could run a kitchen, but Fedrico was, indeed, the chef in this little enterprise, and had been for over forty years, since his father’s death. The fagottini was already braised and only needed to be re-warmed in the big oven. As the prosciutto crisped and the cheese bubbled, the aroma reached the men around the old table.

  

Isabella walked over to them and was enjoying their conversation; old age had done nothing to divest her of an appreciation for handsome men, and now they were asking her to join them. She was only too happy to oblige. Federico arrived with a large tray full of the steaming chicken thighs wrapped around a savory vegetable filling, several servings arranged on a large platter. He set it down in the center of the table, urging the men to help themselves. To that he added gnocchi, little pillows of potato pasta in a simple tomato sauce. It was a feast that would be finished by almond cake and coffee. At the end of the meal all three men leaned back and sighed with satisfaction. It was obvious the mother and son proprietors were pleased.

“That, Signore Giordano, Signora, was ... delizioso.” Illya was full and content, something he hadn’t been for quite some time. Now, on to the question of the painting. Napoleon knew instinctively what his partner was thinking, and looking to Gianni for his help with these people, began the process for which they had come here.

Turning their attention to the mother and son, the UNCLE agents began a delicate interrogation that they hoped would lead them to the missing painting. Gianni interceded for them occasionally when there was some confusion about the details, but after a congenial conversation with Fedrico and Isabella, a story began to emerge that both mystified and amused the three visitors.

The painting by Saint Catherine had hung in the modest little restaurant for fifty years, thanks to the ill-conceived theft by Fredrico. Up until then it had been hanging in a small chapel whose patron saint was the same Catherine, where it was the pride of the small community that worshipped there. According to the narrative given by both mother and son, it was because of their family’s great need that they had fallen into the sin of stealing, and for the last fifty years they had done penance by serving others in this little restaurant, offering comfort to travelers and prayers to the saints.

In spite of their devotion the painting was stolen from them by the ‘despicable Antonio Ferrenti, that miserable piece of’ ... Federico stopped and asked forgiveness for what he almost said in the presence of the saints and his honored guests. That made Napoleon and Illya pay close attention, prompting the senior agent to ask the obvious question. 

“You’re positive that this man, Antonio Ferrenti, he has stolen the painting?” Mother and son both nodded in the affirmative. He had taken the blessed work off of its honored place in the hallway leading to the living quarters upstairs.

“How did he know it was there? Is it common knowledge that you possessed the painting?” Illya was amazed at their naivete if they had actually told others about it.

“No signore, it was a family secret.” Isabella said it in hushed tones, as though someone might be listening. 

“Okay, where can we find this fellow? If you know who he is, you must know where he lives, possibly what he’s done with the painting.” It seemed a reasonable assumption, but then these people weren’t exactly reasonable.

Fredrico shook his head at the question, the realization that the painting might be lost forever. It was his fault, and not even fifty years of lighting candles and praying could erase the damage he had done.

“I do not, and the man is a ... how do you say?” He bantered with Gianni and finally the younger man exclaimed his translation.

“A hoodlum! That is what he is calling him. What do we do now?” The UNCLE agents exchanged looks that conveyed nothing to the three people watching them, but between them passed an understanding about their next step. 

“We are going to Milan to the UNCLE offices there and get Illya some medical attention. Then we are going to find Antonio Ferrenti and get that painting back.”

Napoleon heaved a great sigh at the prospect of hunting down a common thief who may or may not still have the painting they needed to recover. With heartfelt thanks and seemingly endless farewells, Gianni and his two passengers finally put the restaurant in the rear view mirror and headed towards the city of Milan, and the next part of this great quest.


	6. Spaghetti Westerns and Spies

The three men rode to Milan with Illya propped up between his partner and Gianni. He slept most of the way, a matter of willing himself to find a haven from the incessant pain in his ribs. Napoleon directed Gianni to the Milan UNCLE offices and led the way into the the immaculate little tailor’s shop that fronted what passed for a headquarters there. Typically, the Italians who populated this office were inclined to be less stringent than their American counterparts concerning a uniform appearance, and indeed the women were all fashionably attired in clothing that Napoleon decided was refreshing and appealing to him. Gianni was amazed at the transformation from the tailor’s interior to this secret corridor of offices and people.

“This then is UNCLE?” If Gianni was struck by what he was seeing, it was nothing compared to the impression he was making on the staff as they looked at his American West themed attire. More than one female staffer thought him even more dashing than the famous Mr. Solo. Thankfully the attention of nearly everyone was soon turned to the ailing Kuryakin, whose care was now turned over to the meager medical personnel manning their small infirmary.

Napoleon left Illya in the hands of a young doctor who seemed immune to the glares coming from the abused Russian. It would be best to not stay and witness the carnage was Solo’s thoughts, so he gathered up his Italian guide and together they began to search through information that they hoped would lead them to Antonio Ferrenti and the stolen painting.

It was several hours later before all three men emerged from their respective tasks. Illya was bandaged and full of antibiotics, Napoleon and Gianni in possession of some possibly valuable intelligence concerning the stolen art and it’s probable location.

“How do you know it will be there?” The question posed by Illya was challenging the slim bit of information they were now following.

“I don’t, but it’s the only lead that I could come up with. The trail is very vague, and this person seems the only logical choice for where Ferrenti might go for help.” Napoleon was frustrated by the lack of viable information concerning this entire affair. Not even the Vatican had been able to ferret out any details that could have been helpful.

Gianni was driving again, and when he spotted the address they were looking for he made a wild turn, braving honking horns and irate drivers, pulling into a little spot that made Illya’s stomach lurch.

“Ah, we have arrived!” He proudly proclaimed to the other two men. Illya just rolled his eyes as Napoleon smiled at the Italian’s enthusiasm.

“Okay then. Gianni, you stay here. If we’re not out in say...’ Napoleon checked his watch. “... thirty minutes, then go back to the UNCLE offices and come back with some help. Got that?” Gianni nodded vigorously. He felt like a real western hero right now, and the only thing he lacked was a horse; the old truck would have to do.

“Si, si si. I am ready to go.. er, to stay. Thirty minutes, okay.”

Illya and Napoleon started down a small set of steps and into a courtyard surrounded by blooming azaleas. The doorway they arrived at was beneath an arching bougainvillea, making it appear as though to enter was to be surrounded by that riot of color. Napoleon knocked on the door, unsure of who would answer but hopeful that the trail would indeed end here, beneath the twining fuschia hued tree.

The door opened slightly, just a crack that allowed whoever was inside to view the uninvited visitors.

 

 

 

“Salve.” Illya looked at his partner. He hadn’t told him their lead was a woman.

“Salve. Signorina Ferrenti?” Napoleon smiled at the young woman on the other side of the old door. He hadn’t expected to see someone so lovely.

“Si. And who are you?” She switched to perfectly accented English, causing both agents to raise an eyebrow.

“Oh, excellent, you speak English.’ Napoleon was still smiling, still attempting to charm Miss Ferrenti. 

“I am Napoleon Solo, and this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin. We are looking for a man I believe is your father, Signor Antonio Ferrenti.” Hopefully the smile on his face would allay any fears that her father was in danger.

“And why should I tell you anything? You could be thieves or murderers. Why is an American looking for my father?” A memory jumped out at Solo, something about being described as ‘so obviously American’.

Napoleon didn’t want to look at Illya, he knew what he was thinking. 

“We are agents of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement,’ he pulled out his identification card and showed it to her.

“We only want to ask him some questions.” Illya was looking earnest now, his most innocent expression in lieu of a normal scowl. They needed to get inside and search for that painting.

“Signorina, in truth we are looking for a painting that may possibly be in your father’s possession. You have perhaps seen it, or know of its whereabouts?” She looked at the blond, canted her head to one side as though considering what he had said.

Slowly she opened the door, gesturing to them that they should enter.

“My father is not here, but please come in, we will talk.” Napoleon started to step through the door, beneath the overflowing bougainvillea, then turned to Illya.

“Gianni. Go get him and bring him in here, we don’t want him going back to headquarters.” Illya turned and walked quickly back out to where the truck was parked. Gesturing for Gianni to get out and follow him, he looked more closely.

Gianni was gone. 

“Bozhe moy... Where has that Italian cowboy gotten off to now?” Illya was slightly flustered, considering it very likely that the man had not just wandered away but had been taken. But by whom? He opened the front door to take a look inside. Gianni’s hat was on the seat, a crease in the brim where previously there had been none. A deep sigh and thoughts of an innocent being in danger once more. The man had saved them, and now this. Whoever had Gianni couldn’t be too far away, although in a vehicle several miles would have been traveled by now.

As Kuryakin was thinking his way through to his next step, he was hailed in that familiar accent.

“Ho, there you are Illya! I am so ...” The Italian stumbled out of the bushes towards the blond agent, then he collapsed into Illya’s arms. Gianni’s face showed signs of having been knocked around, his shirt was torn and the chaps gone completely. The cowboy had taken a beating and yet, here he was. 

“Gianni, what happened. Who did this?” The Italian was trying to remain conscious as he spoke something in Italian.

“What? I didn’t understand you. Gianni!” Still muttering in Italian, Gianni slumped while Illya pulled him along, the larger man putting a strain on the Russian’s newly tended wounds. By the time he stepped up to the big bougainvillea, Napoleon was opening the door to look for his partner. What he saw caught him by surprise and he immediately went to the aid of both men. 

“What happened?” The blond was shaking his head, relieved to get some of the weight off of his own tender shoulder.

“I don't know. The truck was empty, with signs of a struggle. Gianni came stumbling up to me from behind a big bush. He must have been mugged and then left there. His pistol is missing.”

Robbed. Nothing more, not THRUSH... A mugging was preferable, and silently each man was thankful that it hadn’t been worse. After waiting inside for a few minutes, Miss Ferrenti came to the door to look now for both of the men who had come to question her about her father. What she saw elicited a small exclamation before beckoning them to come into her home.

“Hurry, no one should see you like this. Please, get him inside.” 

Napoleon and Illya managed to haul Gianni into the little apartment, but not without the American’s sleeve getting plucked by one of the many thorns on the bougainvillea as he shared the doorway with the two other men.

“Great... just what I needed. More damage to the suit.” Illya commiserated with his partner of the dreaded expense report he would have to file. Neither of them would fare very well when accounting got hold of them after this affair.

“There, put him on the sofa. What happened to him?” Sophia pointed to her sofa, an expression of real concern clouding the pretty features.

“He, uh... What is your name?” Napoleon's research had only produced the last name of Ferrenti, and he couldn’t continue on without a first name from the pretty woman.

“Sophia. Sophia Antonia Ferrenti. And what is _his_ name?” Her head jerked towards the strangely dressed man on her couch.

“That is Gianni Bruno. He has been, um... assisting us in our search for the missing painting.’ Napoleon was done with all of the side stepping that had been going on. 

“Now, can you help us, or is there something that you are hiding?” Illya thought Sophia was going to break down and cry by the way her face sort of twisted up into a little girl’s pout. Instead she slumped down into the chair next to Gianni and shook her head.

“No, I have nothing to hide from you Mister Solo. In fact, I can tell you exactly what you need to know in order to find your painting.” Finally! This was the first actual good news they had come across since this whole thing started.

“That’s just what I wanted to hear. Now, where do we start?”

“Do you have a vehicle?” She looked from one to the other of the agents, never forgetting the man on the couch. He was beginning to come to and for a moment Gianni wondered how he had come to be in this woman’s home. 

“Si, si... I have a vehicle signorina. I will take you... ouch.” Gianni was attempting to stand when he realized that something hurt.  Napoleon shook his head at the continuing hitches in this affair.

“Sit down, Gianni. You need medical attention, we’ll take you back to UNCLE headquarters and...” Gianni looked stricken. 

“No signori, I will drive you. We will all go together to find the blessed painting of my Santa Caterina. I must be there.” He looked so earnest in his plea, Napoleon just shook his head in amazement. This fellow ought to be an UNCLE agent, he certainly had the heart for it.

“All right Gianni. Are you sure you feel up to it?” The rugged looking Italian nodded his head in spite of the pounding that was beginning to plague him.

“Si, si si... I could maybe have, um... how do you say it? Aspirin?” Sophia nodded yes and went to fetch something for his headache. Napoleon nudged his partner.

“He says it funny like you do.” All grins, with some element of relief showing with this new development.

“Very funny, Napoleon.‘ For some unknown reason, the word aspirin nearly always elicited a response.

“I suppose I am to ride in the back of the truck?” It always fell to the Russian to be relegated to the worst seat, and by no means would Napoleon leave Sophia’s side, especially with Gianni at the wheel.

Sophia came back with the promised pain killer and a glass of water; she seemed very solicitous of the man, and the UNCLE agents recognized something in her response to him that smacked of attraction. Gianni swallowed it down and then indicated he was ready to ride.


	7. It Ain't Over til It's Over

It was a matter of a few minutes for them to get loaded into the truck; Gianni at the wheel and Sophia between him and Napoleon. Illya, as predicted, took up residence behind the cab, not entirely unhappy at his ability to stretch the leg he was still nursing back from its injury. Sophia gave specific directions, and a familiar route materialized before Gianni’s eyes. He knew the town to which they were going, and explained to Napoleon that there was a little church there where Santa Caterina was believed to have stayed for a short period of time. It would be reasonable to assume that someone might think the painting belonged there.

As the foursome journeyed north, a story unraveled that caused each of them to consider the power of redemption and the motivation of those in need of it.

Sophia’s father, Antonio, had lived a life full of petty crimes and rogue like behavior. His one love in life was the beautiful Sophia, an only child and the one thing in Ferrenti’s life that caused him to stop and consider the error of his ways. According to Sophia, her father had an epiphany of sorts when he saw the painting of Santa Caterina in the little restaurant that belonged to Fredrico and Isabella Giordano. He had heard the rumors of such a painting, but one day as he walked behind the counter in order to liberate some of their spare change, Antonio saw it. At first he thought it must be a copy of some sort, but upon closer inspection there was no doubt.

This belonged in its rightful spot, not hidden behind a restaurant counter; stolen, no doubt. And so he stole the painting from the thief who had stolen it from the church fifty years earlier. When he delivered it to the priest it was with a request that his sins be forgiven and his daughter cared for when he was gone. As it happened, Antonio disappeared shortly afterwards.

“THRUSH?” Illya had been listening through the truck’s back window, catching most of the conversation in spite of the wind whistling by.

“I suspect so, Illya. Sophia, I’m sorry, but ...” The pretty woman shook her head as tears filled her eyes.

“I know my father is ... he is gone. If he were alive he would have contacted me somehow. These THRUSH, they have killed him.”

Napoleon and Illya had to agree; it was unlikely that THRUSH would free the man after he was unable to give them what they sought.

Ninety minutes north of Milan, the old truck rambled into a small village surrounded by rolling foothills that fronted glacial lakes and mountain retreats. The little village of San Carlo was generally bypassed on the tour routes and had remained a quaint and unaffected home to several families that continued to live where their ancestors had for centuries. A family event might include half of the village, so tightly woven were the ties that bound this small community.

At the center of this town was a church, modest by many standards but beloved by all. It was to this structure that Gianni’s old truck finally pulled to within a few feet. He and Sophia both looked up at the simply designed structure, the unadorned steeple and the broken down steps. The church needed money, that was apparent to all.

Napoleon exited the truck first, helping Sophia to step down onto the cobbled surface beneath them. Illya climbed from his position after first standing and stretching. He had endured quite enough of the open air on this little journey, and had already determined that it would be Napoleon in the back on their return to Milan.

Gianni got out, stiff from the beating he had taken but curious as to the next steps in this strange twist on an otherwise uneventful life. The handsome Italian was feeling drawn to the lovely Sophia, but certain that she would have no use for someone such as he. Uncultured and tied to the land as he was, there was nothing that he could offer her. Tucking that part of his heart into the facade of his Western identity, Gianni walked around the front of his truck and met the others as they all climbed the steps into the little church. 

The three Catholics among them, including Napoleon, all stopped at the font of Holy Water and dipped into the basin, then crossed themselves reverently. Illya was impressed at his partner’s ability to morph into a man of faith, wondering briefly if it was sincere but dismissing his doubts in favor of a higher estimation of his friend.

They entered the sanctuary; the three kneeled and once again crossed themselves before approaching the lone figure in front of the altar. Upon hearing the footsteps of several people, the man in cleric’s robes rose to face them. He was a big man, probably around fifty years old with blond hair and light eyes. Not typically Italian looking, but then they were near the northern borders, and people in this region were often lighter complected with varying shades of hair and eyes. 

“Salve, Padre, possiamo parlarle?” _Hello Father, may we speak with you?_ ”

“Si, figliolo, come posso aiutarvi?”  _Yes my son, how may I help you?”_

Gianni was looking at the priest very closely... something about him...

“Lieutenant Bailey?  Padre, è lei?”

Everyone looked at Gianni, then back at the priest.  What was going on? “It is true, this is Lietenant Bailey.  Padre, non posso crederci.”  It was true, and the priest, or Lieutenant Bailey, began to look more closely at the dark haired man in front of him, memories of a young boy whose life he had saved crystallizing in his mind. 

“Gianni? Is that you? Thanks be to God, I never would have believed I would see you again.”

And with that the two men embraced, one in heartfelt gratitude for a mystery now solved, the other for the grace of God in relieving his own heart of the sorrow of not knowing the young man’s fate.

“I am called Father Thomas, as I was all of those years ago. You didn’t know it, Gianni, but I was an Army Chaplain. When the war ended I requested to remain in Italy, and eventually, after retiring from the army, the Church saw fit to place me here when the old priest passed away. Not the usual turn of events, but God has a way of making His Will known to those entrusted with His Church.”

Napoleon and Illya watched all of this in wonderment. What were the odds? As for Sophia, she had tears in her eyes as the obvious emotions between the two men reminded her of the reason for this trip.

“Signori, it is wonderful that you are able to have this reunion, but do you not think, Gianni, that we should... mmm... let us ask the Father about ...” Gianni stepped back, still keeping his eyes on the man he had thought about for all of these years since the war. Yes, the reason for their visit, that was the thing of even greater importance.

“Lieutenant... ah, Father, we have come here ...”

“For the painting? I’ve been waiting for someone to come for it. Here, let me show you where it is.”

Still slightly dumbfounded by the turn of events, Napoleon and Illya simply followed the others into a smaller room to the right of the nave. The Barroque style chapel, although small, still had some of the signature embellishments of the period in which it was built. This room, secreted beyond the area where the congregation gathered, was cloaked by a door that appeared to be merely part of the panelling. Father Thomas pressed an ornate gold button within a larger design. The snick of a latch sounded and the door swung open revealing the time worn, beautiful portrait.

 

 Gianni crossed himself again, this time in the presence of the painting he could only have dreamed of seeing in person.

“Bellisima...” Awestruck, he reached out to it, drawing his hand back at the thought of touching the exquisite painting.  Father Thomas continued...

“I found it at the altar several weeks ago, and I just haven’t done anything about it. Two men came by last week, asking questions and pretending to be from the Vatican. I knew they weren’t, and so I acted ignorant; it seemed unlikely that they were genuine.”

Napoleon was concerned that, most likely, THRUSH had identified this location.

“Father, we are from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. The Vatican has enlisted our agency to find this painting and return it to them. I can give you a number to call so that you can confirm this, but I believe that the two men you mentioned were from an organization that has designs on this painting.”

Father Thomas looked puzzled at that. Perhaps he had been in this bucolic setting for too long, he had forgotten about some of the evil that went on in the world.

“Do you believe we are in danger? I can’t allow anything to happen to any of my parishioners.” He would take up arms to protect his congregation; chaplain or not, he had learned to be a soldier during his years in the army.

“Father, is it possible that anyone else knows of the painting?” Illya was concerned that every minute they spent here was a potential for being discovered. Father Thomas shook his head no.

“No one was around when I discovered it, and I put it away immediately. I recognized the painting, and the artist’s mark on it. Saint Catherine is highly revered in this region, and I am familiar with her work, and her life.”

It seemed obvious now that Antonio Ferrenti had returned the painting in spite of the temptation to make money from it by selling it to THRUSH. The fact that he was missing seemed to give credence to the theory.

“Father, this painting is wanted by someone else, an organization that would kill to achieve its desires.” Father Thomas looked at the agents questioningly, his eyes searching for answers.

“THRUSH.” Napoleon and Illya said it simultaneously.

“Thrush? Like a bird?” Napoleon would try and explain the difference. As he did so Illya circled around to the other side of the chapel, his keen senses now on alert.

“Yes, but lethal and hungry for power. Apparently someone has suggested that the painting may have some type of mystical power attached to it. These people are not above using a religious icon for evil purposes.”

Seemingly from nowhere, a voice rang out.

“That’s right, Mr. Solo. We’re not above anything that will give us the upper hand.” A tall man with an English accent had approached the group with enough stealth to surprise them. Another man was with him, and between the two a hefty amount of firepower.

“Let’s see, we have Solo, and who are your friends? A priest, a cowboy and... well well... a beautiful woman.”

He seemed overly confident, something that evaporated quickly when Illya took out his companion after a brief struggle. A wicked right hook to the man’s temple sent him into oblivion. Napoleon quickly jumped into action, wrestling with the armed stranger until they both had their hands on the gun. Urging him to give up did no good and before he could get it away from him completely, the gun fired.

Sophia screamed as Gianni pulled her back, wrapping his arms around her protectively. Father Thomas kneeled down to check for a pulse on the unlucky man, but found none.

“Are you all right Napoleon?” Illya was himself sagging from the effort of his own battle, relieved that it had not been his partner on the receiving end of the bullet.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m great. Father, I’m... so sorry.” Father Thomas stood and put his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder.

“You have nothing to be sorry about, son. I believe you and your friend just saved our lives.” Gianni, his arm still around the beautiful Sophia, walked with her outside to the front steps of the church. A little fresh air, he reasoned, would be good for this delicate creature. It was quite a sight, the lovely modern woman in the caring caress of a man dressed like a cowboy, almost like he had come in off of a cattle drive. Illya shook his head. The report would definitely make for interesting reading.

Using a communicator obtained from the Milan office, Napoleon called in to request a clean up crew as well as additional transportation. Neither he nor Illya would ride in the back of a truck. He was just too tired for that. He also requested that the Vatican agents be notified of the discovery, and that they would find the painting in the care of Father Thomas. The American priest and Gianni made a pact to stay in touch with each other this time; the memories were too precious to allow their renewed friendship to lapse.

Napoleon wondered if, now that the mystery of the missing Lt. Bailey had been solved, Gianni might abandon his cowboy garb in favor of something a little more modern. Then again, who was he to judge? Another warble on the communicator was answered by Napoleon.

“Solo here... Oh really?... That’s good news, thank you. And do you think it’s possible to do something about ...? Yes? Excellent. Grazie, ciao.” Illya was waiting for an explanation of the curious conversation.

“What was that all about?” Napoleon smiled and then called Sophia over to where he and Illya had sat down. “Sophia, agents from the Milan office have located your father.” The young woman was afraid to ask for details, she expected the worst.

“Is he... dead?” Gianni put his arms around her shoulders, hoping to help buoy her up against some awful bit of news.

“Actually, he’s in jail.’ Napoleon couldn’t help but smile at the irony, and Illya rolled his eyes at the news.

“It seems he was caught trying to sneak out of a restaurant without paying for his meal. The owner had him thrown in jail. He’s safe, and he’s very much alive.”

Now Illya was curious about how he had gotten away from THRUSH. He didn’t have to ask, Napoleon was thinking the same thing.

“He seems to have eluded THRUSH completely, and to be honest, jail was probably the safest place for him.” Sophia was giddy with relief, tearful and laughing at the same time.

“Oh, grazie... thank you so much. You have saved us all, I am so happy.”

Illya just shook his head. This entire mission had been a mystery to him. The team from Milan showed up two hours later, ready to stay on as security for the painting and the priest. Gianni and Sophia were reticent about parting, but after some discussions and rational consideration, they each realized that a spontaneous attraction did not equal their separate desires for long term happiness. Besides, Sophia had her father to care for and Gianni had his animals. Their worlds were very different.

Twenty-four hours later Napoleon and Illya landed at Kennedy International. A mere two hours after that they found themselves sitting at Alexander Waverly’s communion table. Reports had been filed and expense accounts suitably vilified. Illya was wearing a sling and limping from the injury to his leg. Napoleon, unscathed physically, was still pondering the turn of events in this affair.

Upon leaving Waverly’s office to return to their own, Napoleon stopped mid-stride and reached over to grab his partner’s arm.

“Illya, don’t you think it was incredibly ... unreasonably...” He was at a loss for words.

“Do you mean to inquire as to how the painting should fall into the hands of the very man who influenced Gianni to do good works and help hapless UNCLE agents?” His friend screwed up his face at his partner’s easy recitation.

“Well, yeah... something like that. I mean, what are the chances?” Illya thought about it, not wanting to make light of his friend’s obvious search for some greater meaning in this affair. The religious overtones had obviously affected his emotional state somehow.

“I think that there are simply probabilities that defy their own ... umm... Well, you see, it is impossible to ...”

Napoleon smiled triumphantly.

“You see. Not even you can come up with a suitably droll analysis of this situation. Something happened here that seems... divine.”

There. He’d said it, and he meant it. Perhaps Saint Catherine had been watching over the entire string of events and ... well, maybe.

“Very well, if you wish to infuse this affair with some type of miraculous intervention, then... well, I shall not object. I am not saying I agree, but I shall refrain from any type of rebuttal. It was indeed most curious how it all worked out.”

Ha! Curious indeed. Napoleon Solo made a mental note to drop in on a mass one of these days. Not that he was going all religious or anything, but sometimes it just felt right to believe there was more to life than what you could see with your eyes.

 _As Napoleon and Illya continued walking down the gunmetal grey corridors, neither of them saw the two ethereal figures that stood at attention before relaxing their posture to lean back on a cushion of pale feathers_.

Curious indeed.

 

_La Fine_

 


End file.
